“Yes, ma’am,” he answered. “I’ll go round up those Indian ponies while you decide.”
Both ponies submitted peacefully to him as he took their reins in hand and led them back to the wagon. “I guess I smell enough like an Indian to you,” he said to the spotted gray. Mary Beth was laying out the harnesses when he brought the ponies back, put them on a lead rope, and tied it to the wagon. “Here, ma’am, I’ll do that for you.”
“Thank you,” she said, and let him take over. “I could do it, though.” She watched as he harnessed the team and looped the reins around the side of the seat. “We’ll go on to Coulson,” she announced, and climbed up to the wagon seat.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, and climbed up on the paint. “We’ll follow the river for a while as long as it’s still headin’ straight north. The river takes a big swing to the east before it works its way back on the line we’ve been followin’, so we can save a fair amount of time if we cut straight across and strike it again in about a day and a half.”
So they started out under a clear sky with the moon settling upon the distant hills as day approached. Behind them, a lonely grave and the bodies of two Lakota warriors lay as testimony to the savagery of the harsh prairie. And a tentative partnership between a grieving widow and an uncertain guide continued on its way. It was not the first time Mary Beth had driven the horses, but they seemed to know it was not David’s hands holding the reins and they seemed a bit balkier than usual—so much so, in fact, that Luke came back and took hold of the bridle of one of the horses and led them until they picked up the pace. They seemed better after that, but Mary Beth really wasn’t aware of the change. Her mind was laden with guilt and worry, guilt over encouraging David to stand guard when there was a danger of Indians coming after them—and worry over the decision she had made to continue on to Coulson. No matter which choice was for the best, leaving David behind was the hardest thing she had ever had to do. And how could she explain David’s death to his brother? John and Doris would certainly take her in, but what would she do for the rest of her life? She couldn’t live with them forever.
Then her thoughts centered on the broad back of the man on the paint pony, and her original fears about him came back now to concern her. Would his manner change now that she was a woman alone? It would be so easy for him to murder her and ride off with all her possessions. He had said in the beginning that he would guide them only because he needed the money. With David gone, would he now be thinking about taking all of her money? In the middle of this godforsaken prairie, no one would ever know what had happened to her. Or would he simply rob her and ride off to leave her to the Indians and the lonely prairie? She reached down for David’s shotgun and propped it up close beside her.
Up ahead, Luke was turning over concerns of his own in his mind. He was wondering if he would come to regret the decision to lead the couple to the Yellowstone now that he had a grieving widow on his hands. He was now more anxious than ever to find Mary Beth’s people as quickly as possible. He had to assume that her late husband’s brother would take her in, but what if he found this place they had talked about and the brother was not there? He had agreed to take them to Coulson, and that was all. He had no obligation beyond that. But, damn it, he thought, I can’t leave her alone if her in-laws ain’t there. She seemed to be so vulnerable and helpless since David was killed. It might have been a wiser decision for her to return to the place they started from. Who could say what was best for the woman? What will be will be, he decided with a sigh of resignation and gave the paint a nudge with his heels to quicken the pace a little.
Sometime around noon, he reined back to let Mary Beth catch up to him. When she pulled the horses to a stop beside him, he took a moment to study her face. She looked tired and haggard as the sunshine reflected off freshly formed trails left by her tears. He made a decision to stop for the rest of the day to let her rest. “The next little patch of trees we come to, we’ll make camp and go on in the morning. We’ll most likely leave the Powder after that and figure on strikin’ it again in about a day’s travel, and maybe we’ll be far enough north by then that we won’t have to worry about that band of Sioux anymore.”
“Whatever you think best,” she replied.
* * *
Once Luke settled on their campsite, Mary Beth dutifully began gathering wood for a fire while he took care of the horses. He took a few minutes to give the two Indian ponies a closer inspection. Both horses seemed docile enough, considering the new experience of trailing behind a wagon. Neither horse had a saddle; both were haltered with a cord made of woven strands of buffalo hair about the size of Luke’s little finger. Of the two, he preferred the spotted gray, although the sorrel appeared to be the younger horse. He hobbled all but his paint and left them by the water to graze. When he returned to the wagon, Mary Beth had her fire started and was filling the coffeepot. He noticed that she was again wearing her father’s pistol belt around her waist. He really couldn’t blame her for being cautious, and he knew there was no way he could reassure her that she was safe with him.
“I’m gonna ride back to that low ridge we passed a while back and take a look behind us,” he told her. “I won’t be gone long.” She nodded solemnly and continued grinding the coffee beans.
He didn’t expect to see anyone along their back trail, but he thought it wouldn’t hurt to check. It was difficult to hide a trail left by wagon wheels, but he figured the odds were in their favor. The paint loped along comfortably as he neared the ridge until Luke reined him back to climb up to the top. He paused there for a few moments while he scanned the horizon. Bringing his gaze back to the south along the river, he was startled to detect movement beyond a clump of bushes on the bank. He immediately backed his horse below the crown of the ridge while he scrambled back to determine if he had caught sight of antelope, or deer—or man. Kneeling at the top of the ridge, he waited, staring at the bushes that now blocked his view. If it was a herd of deer that caught his eye, they might have gone down to the water’s edge to drink. He waited and watched.
“Damn,” he swore when he saw them emerge from the screen of berry bushes. There were six of them—no doubt Lakota; he couldn’t tell at that distance. “Damn wagon,” he cursed as the Indians followed the obvious tracks of the wagon’s wheels. The tracks presented a clear picture to the scouting party following them—a single wagon, settlers probably, and little means to protect themselves from six armed warriors. If the trackers were keen enough, they could determine that it was indeed a farm wagon, and not a heavily loaded freighter, probably meaning a weaker defense. “Damn the luck,” he swore for the third time, for he had hoped not to run into any more Sioux parties, even though they had continued to come upon many trails heading west. Judging from the distance, and the evident pace of their pursuit, he figured he had about half an hour before the six warriors would reach the stand of trees and the wagon. He returned to his horse at once and hurried back to Mary Beth.
She paused when she saw him racing back to their camp at a gallop, knowing that the reason for his haste could not be good. Without thinking, she emptied the coffeepot full of water on the fire, anticipating his call to pack up. “No time to waste,” he called out as he pulled the paint to a sliding halt. “We’ve got to get outta here! There’s an Indian war party on our trail.” He slid off his horse and ran to bring the others up from the river. Mary Beth tossed the coffeepot and her cooking utensils into the wagon, then ran to help him with the horses.
With no thought toward running, he followed the river with his eyes, searching for a better spot to defend. “There,” he said, pointing to a deep gully on the other side of the river a few hundred yards distant. “We’ll pull your wagon up in the mouth of that gully and park it. It’ll give us some protection from the front.” He could have hoped for a better place to stand off an Indian attack, but there wasn’t time to be choosy. He glanced at Mary Beth as she helped him h
itch up the horses. She might have wondered why he had chosen a place out in the open where there was no place to hide and little cover beyond shoulder-high brush along one side of the gully, but she did not question him. In fact, she displayed little emotion of any kind, going about fastening the harness as if in a trance. Misinterpreting her expression, he hoped she wasn’t about to go loco on him.
In truth, Mary Beth had resigned herself to the same destiny that had befallen her husband. Friends back in Minnesota had advised against her and David’s decision to strike out for a future in the undeveloped West. Now David was gone, and she was convinced that she would soon be joining him. She had cried herself out over David’s death. There were no tears left in her, certainly none for herself. She was now resigned to wait patiently for her fate, and possibly making it costly for the Indians bent upon killing her. As for Luke Sunday, there might no longer be a reason to fear what his ultimate designs might be on her meager possessions, or her body. They would never make it to the Yellowstone. The Indians would see to that.
When the three Indian ponies had been tied to the tailgate, Luke climbed up on the wagon beside Mary Beth and took the reins. Giving the team a sharp pop of the lines, he started them off at a fast walk, heading out through the cottonwoods toward the bend in the river. Once across the river, he drove the wagon as far up into the mouth of the gully as the horses could pull it, causing Mary Beth to wonder how they would be able to pull it out again. Wasting no time, he looked back inside the wagon. “Pile everything you can up against the side of the wagon,” he instructed. “That mattress and the beddin’, stuff it against the sideboards—and that trunk.” She responded immediately, preparing their fortifications while he jumped down to unhitch the horses and lead them, along with the others, to the back of the gully. When he saw her start to move their store of smoked meat out of harm’s way, he said, “Leave it. It’ll stop a bullet.”
When the horses were safe and they had done all they could to prepare their battlements, there was nothing to do but wait. Luke picked up David’s shotgun and checked it to make sure both barrels were loaded. “You might have better luck usin’ this shotgun instead of one of these carbines those two Sioux had back at the forks.” He placed the box of shells next to the trunk she had pushed against the side of the wagon. “This is a good spot for you to sit and shoot from.” He paused and looked her in the eye. “I didn’t ask you if you know how to shoot that thing.”
“I know how,” she replied calmly.
“Good,” he said, for he remembered that she was none too accurate with a pistol. “Might be a good idea to eat a little somethin’ while we’ve got a chance, ’cause we’re liable to be a little busy before long. Matter of fact, a cup of coffee would go a long way.” He looked around at the shrubs beyond the wagon. “I believe I can find enough branches in those bushes to make a fire.”
Having said no more than a few words since leaving their previous camping spot, she picked up her coffeepot and started toward the water’s edge to fill it. “I’d better get water before they show up,” she said. “We’re so out in the open, we might not be able to get to the water when they find us.”
“I know it ain’t shady in this gully,” Luke replied. “But we’ve got a helluva lot better chance of keepin’ our scalps here where we can see ’em comin’ after us. They can hide back there in the trees, but they’re gonna have to cross a wide space of open bluffs, or swim across the river, if they’re plannin’ on attackin’ us. And if they do, I hope I can make it so hot for ’em that they’ll change their minds about jumpin’ us.” He didn’t say it, but he also knew there was the possibility of a long siege, depending on what the Indians had in mind and how patient they were. If they mounted an all-out attack, he hoped he could inflict enough damage to discourage them, and possibly cause them to give up before incurring too many casualties. On the other hand, if they were patient, they could wait him out, hanging back far enough to minimize the range of his rifle until he and Mary Beth had to make an attempt to run.
He didn’t have long to wait, for in the next few minutes, the six warriors appeared at the edge of the trees, talking among themselves and pointing to the wagon tracks just recently left on the bank. In the next instant, one of them looked up and spotted the wagon in the gully several hundred yards away and began talking excitedly as he pointed to it. “Lakota,” Luke pronounced dryly. They were still too far for him to recognize the markings on their ponies as a symbol of that tribe, but he had a gut feeling. He could also feel Mary Beth tense as he said it and pull the shotgun up to her shoulder. “Let’s wait and see what they’re gonna do,” he told her. “They’re a little out of range right now.”
The warriors took only a few minutes to decide their plan of attack. It was the option Luke had hoped for, because he could use his rifle most effectively that way. Screaming out their war cries, they spread out in a fan and charged across the bluffs. “Wait,” Luke cautioned Mary Beth. “Let ’em get a little closer.” He climbed up behind the seat where he could steady his rifle.
Forgetting her earlier morbid thoughts of doom, Mary Beth drew the hammers back on both barrels of her shotgun and braced herself, her fear having been replaced by a thirst for vengeance for David’s death. Anxious now to make someone pay for it, she could wait no longer, and pulled the trigger when they were still a hundred and fifty yards away. Her shot, ineffective, was followed by one from the other barrel with the same results. With little choice, Luke took his first shot at the lead warrior, knocking him from his pony’s back. The Sioux were well within the Henry’s effective range, but Luke had planned to let them get within fifty yards, figuring that he would have time to eliminate two or three before they could retreat out of range. As it was, the five remaining warriors scattered to draw back out of range. In hopes of a lucky shot, he threw another round after them, but missed.
Thanks to Mary Beth’s premature shot, Luke’s plan to deliver a devastating blow to the war party was rendered ineffective. It would do little good to admonish her for it, or complain that her impatient action would probably serve to lengthen their siege. So instead, he patiently advised her that her shotgun would be of little use at that range.
“We got one of the bastards, though,” she said as she loaded two fresh shells into her shotgun.
“I reckon,” he replied, and resisted the temptation to tell her that if she had waited just one or two minutes longer, he would most likely have eliminated three of the warriors, and the rest might have gone home. In considering their present situation, however, he had to lay some of the blame at his feet. Thinking that most of the hostile Sioux were already in Sitting Bull’s and Crazy Horse’s villages, he had underestimated the number of small bands of warriors still leaving the reservations to join them. Already, they had been discovered by two different parties while traveling the Powder River Valley, and his thoughts returned to curse the wagon once more. Damn wagon, he thought, like dangling bait in front of a wolf. It was at this point that he decided to abandon it, although he had to admit that he had probably subconsciously made the decision when he had driven the wagon so far up the gully. His thoughts were interrupted then by a question from Mary Beth.
“What do you think they’re gonna do?”
“Don’t know,” Luke replied, although he had a pretty strong idea. “They pulled back to talk about it. We’ll know soon enough.” He climbed down from the wagon. “I’ve got some things to do while they’re makin’ up their minds. You keep your eyes peeled on that riverbank and sing out if you see any of ’em movin’ toward us again.”
While she watched for any signs of another attack, he gathered up David’s extra rope and, using straps cut from the traces, began to fashion some packsaddles for the horses. He was convinced that the only chance they had of eluding this and any other war party was to abandon the wagon. It was going to be a hard decision for Mary Beth, but it was impossible to run from any hostile
s that spotted their tracks in this open country, so it was now a matter of survival. For this reason, he didn’t tell her yet. He still had another decision to make. There was no doubt that she would want to take more than they would be able to carry on the horses. But with five horses, three of which to use as packhorses, she could take a fair amount as long as it could be carried on a horse’s back. The thing that troubled him was the fact that the two horses pulling the wagon were shod, while the other three were not. This fact meant they would still leave a white man’s trail, even though they were traveling faster. David had the tools on the wagon to remove the shoes, but then they would be confronted with the probability of horses with sore feet slowing them down. It was a simple fact, the two of them on horseback, leading one packhorse, would move faster and more easily hide their trail.
“They’re coming back!” Mary Beth called over her shoulder.
Luke dropped the pack he was working on and moved up beside her in the wagon. He saw at once what had caught her attention. The five warriors were spread out again, moving cautiously among the bluffs of the river in an attempt to get within range of their weapons. Without knowing how well they were armed, Luke had to wait to see what they considered an effective range. He was answered soon enough when one of the hostiles popped up from behind a tree at the edge of the riverbank and fired a shot that knocked a hole in the wagon’s sideboards. Both Luke and Mary Beth ducked behind her trunk. “That ain’t good,” Luke muttered. “One of ’em’s got a rifle—sounds like an army Springfield.” The news was not good because it told him that the hostiles had a longer-range weapon than his Henry, and judging from the hole in the wagon’s sideboard, they knew how to shoot it. To confirm it, a second shot rang out, sending another chunk of wood flying from the wagon.
Before scrambling around the end of the trunk toward the wagon seat, he had a pretty good idea what was going on. And when he eased his head up so he could see, it was confirmed, as a third shot punched a hole in the mattress propped up against the side. As he guessed, the warrior with the rifle intended to keep Luke down while his brothers made their way closer to the gully, probably carrying weapons of shorter range than the Springfield. Come on, then, he thought, let them get a little bit closer and we’ll see. “Stay down behind that trunk,” he told Mary Beth. It was an unnecessary command. He crawled back to the tailgate and dropped to the bottom of the gully. Crouched behind the gully wall, he ran past the wagon tongue to a notch in the sandy soil. Laying his rifle in the notch, he eased up high enough to see the riverbank before him. After a few moments’ search, he spotted the other four hostiles working their way in closer to him. Patiently, he waited for the shot. Finally one of the Indians broke from the bluffs about one hundred yards downriver and started to cross. Luke took careful aim and squeezed the trigger. The warrior collapsed and floated slowly down the river with the gentle tide. As soon as he fired, Luke moved a half-dozen yards to a new spot. Moments later, the Springfield spoke again, kicking up gravel in the spot he had just vacated.
A Man Called Sunday Page 12